


Post Nihil

by a_river_of_stars



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: 3x4 - Freeform, 4x3 - Freeform, Atypical Treatment of Amnesia, Canon Compliant, Guilt, M/M, Past Suicide Attempts, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Probably ooc, Quattro - Freeform, Teens Acting Like Teens, Temporary Amnesia, Troquat
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-04-20 22:47:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14271189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_river_of_stars/pseuds/a_river_of_stars
Summary: Much of Trowa’s past is lost to him, but he can’t help feeling drawn to the pale boy who’s been haunting his dreams.  When the boy turns out to be real, Trowa follows him into space.  But something’s not right.  A deep sense of sadness has taken hold of Quatre, and Trowa makes it his mission to free him from it.  Unfortunately, Quatre seems to think he deserves to be miserable.A love story taking place between Episodes 35-49.  This is my first fic for this fandom, so please be kind.  I'm new to this site.





	1. Recordatio

**Author's Note:**

> Not much to say besides hello, I guess. I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. For the record, I have read virtually no stories for this fandom, so my characterization may not be what everyone is used to. I also don't have a beta reader, so please forgive any mistakes.

**recordatio** _noun, Latin_. “remembrance, recollection, memory, or reminiscence”

This chapter takes place between Episodes 35 and 36, after amnesiac!Trowa has returned to the circus but before Duo finds him. The title has meaning in Latin, but it also contains the word “record.” It’s probably not as clever as I think it is.

* * *

I.

There was something surreal about living without memories.

His whole life at the circus felt like an illusion.  He wore the mask of a clown, and muscle memory enabled him to do everything his job required of him.  Taming lions, performing acrobatics without a net, even standing perfectly still as knives were hurled at his prone body; it all came to him like it was second nature.  He supposed he must have the experience for this kind of work if his body remembered it.  Yet it didn’t feel like him at all.  His body went through the motions, but his mind was far away.  It was always wandering, pushing at the edges of his consciousness, searching in vain for the memories he had lost.  It was like he was living in a dream.  Even his older sister was little more than a stranger to him.

The red-haired girl who had stopped him in the street had raised no hint of recognition in his mind.  She had called him by name—Trowa—and he hadn’t even recognized that.  “But you _are_ Trowa!  Trowa Barton!  And I’m Catherine!  I’m your sister,” she had insisted, and he had no way of knowing if any of it was true.  Still, she had spoken to him kindly, and she was the first person to do that since the accident.

He had followed Catherine back to the circus only because he had nowhere else to go.  Honestly, he had been lucky he had run across her and not someone less scrupulous.  It would have been all too easy to take advantage of him in the dazed state he’d been in.  He had at least recovered enough that he could function at work, but he still wasn’t all there.  He knew, because Catherine kept giving him those worried looks when she thought he couldn’t see.

He sighed vaguely, putting down the pail he had used to carry the scraps of meat to the lions.  The animals were safe, sheltered and well-fed.  He was, too.  He was grateful for it.  Even if he had no memory of his time here, Catherine and the rest of the circus troupe took good care of him.  He’d been robbed of his past, but he could be content with the present.

Work finished for the evening, Trowa gave his favorite lion a quick scratch on the head.  Then he left the animals’ holding area, heading to the ringmaster’s tent to check in with him.

As he approached the tent, Trowa heard something that gave him pause.  Music—not the loud, boisterous kind that accompanied the circus wherever it went, but something quiet and refined. It made him feel like the inside of his head had suddenly been lit up with fairy lights.  Blinking curiously, wanting to find the source of the music, he pulled back the tent flap and peered inside.

“Hello…  I finished feeding the lions,” Trowa called softly.

“Good, good,” the ringmaster said.  He wasn’t really a ringmaster without his red coat and top hat, though.  “You’re quite dedicated to your work since the accident, aren’t you?”

“Oh…  Yes, sir,” Trowa said distractedly.  He had spied the source of the music: a gramophone, perched haphazardly on top of a trunk.  He hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should say something.  In the end, he couldn’t resist.  “Um…  That sounds really nice.”

“Fine taste in music you have!” the older man said, looking pleased.  “All this time working for me and you never mentioned it.  Well, have a seat.  Listen for a while.”

Trowa might have put up a bit of protest to be polite, but he was too interested in the music to pretend he didn’t want to stay and hear more.  He retrieved the chair from the ringmaster’s desk, turned it around, and sat in it backwards so he could fold his arms across the chair’s back.  Resting his chin on top of his arms, Trowa settled down to listen.  He had come in toward the end of the first movement.  It was a cheerful, lively piece, and he smiled faintly, enjoying the interweaving sounds of flute and violin.  If he closed his eyes and concentrated, he could almost make out the story the composer had been trying to tell.

 _There are two characters in this story.  They seem very happy.  Yes…  In perfect harmony with each other.  Maybe they’re in love._ The relationship between the two could have been anything, family or friends, but Trowa’s mind gravitated toward the idea of lovers.  That was probably more a reflection of his own desires than what the composer had in mind, but he didn’t care.  Love was love, after all, and this was what felt right to him.  He wondered if he’d ever been in love before.  Unlikely.  He was younger than Catherine, almost certainly no more than sixteen years old.  He supposed he was too young to have fallen in love.

As Trowa listened to the music, an odd feeling came over him.  He could almost imagine himself playing a part.  He didn’t remember having played an instrument before, but the sensation on his lips and in his fingers made him think he could.  The flute, then.  He began to tap his foot lightly, keeping time.  It felt familiar.  Had he played a duet with someone before?

Trowa was just beginning to drift into peaceful euphoria when suddenly, without warning, the tone of the music changed.  There was a sense of urgency now, of panic and danger.  Trowa was shocked into stillness.  He hadn’t expected such a sweet duet to turn into something so menacing.  What had gone wrong?  Why was this happening?  The music provided no answer.  The notes just came faster and faster, and his heartbeat couldn’t help but speed up to keep pace.  It reached an almost hysterical peak, the violin’s strings screaming and the flute letting out one final, high-pitched screech.  Then there was silence.  In that deadly quiet between movements, Trowa could hear his pulse throbbing in his ears.  What had happened to them?

After several seconds of silence, the next movement began.  It was just the flute now, slow and subdued, a pitiful echo of what it had been.  Trowa’s heart, which was still pounding from the conclusion of the previous movement, tightened in his chest.  He bit his lip and wondered why he felt like crying.

And then the flute was replaced by an equally despondent violin solo.  Trowa inhaled sharply, surprised—he had thought this character was gone, but it seemed they were only separated.  He listened intently to the back and forth between the flute and the violin, each solo getting shorter, coming closer together, warming and increasing in tempo.  Trowa felt the pain in his heart ease as he realized they would have to reunite eventually.  And at last they did; the parts began to overlap, the two soloists once again a duo.

There was the briefest of pauses before the final movement began.  It was shorter than the previous movements, revisiting the melody of the first, transforming it into something strong and brilliant and triumphant.  Trowa felt himself sagging with relief as the composition reached its final notes.  He sat there for a minute, breathing deeply, trembling from the feelings the music had stirred up inside him.  He could have done without the heartbreak of that second movement, but the ending was nice.

There was some shifting around, the sound of the gramophone’s arm being moved.  Then came the quiet rasp of the needle hitting the record again.  The introduction Trowa had missed began to play.  He opened his eyes questioningly.  The ringmaster laid a hand on his shoulder.

“I have some business to take care of,” he said.  “Stay and listen as long as you like, son.”

“Thank you, sir,” Trowa murmured.  The older man patted Trowa’s shoulder and left.

The record had played through two more times and was just starting on a third when he heard the tent flap open.  He knew someone was standing at the threshold, but he was reluctant to acknowledge them, preferring to remain immersed in the music for as long as possible.  The person watched him for a moment before speaking.

“Hey,” Catherine said.  Trowa could hear the affection in his sister’s voice even if he couldn’t see it on her face.  “Boss says you’ve found something you like.”

“Like…  Yeah, I guess that’s the word…”  Trowa smiled, sweet yet secretive.  “I think I’ve remembered something.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.  I think I used to play with someone.”  Just that small admission made warmth spread through Trowa’s body, stretching all the way to the tips of his fingers and toes and chasing away the cold ache of loneliness.  He bit his lip, quite enjoying the sensation.  “So warm…beautiful…”

“Uh-oh.  Sounds like it’s a little more than _like_ ,” Catherine teased.  “Who is she?”

“He,” Trowa corrected her absently.  He was a bit surprised by the unconscious response, but it felt right.  He accepted that feeling and tried to describe the image that had appeared in his mind.  “He plays the violin.  He’s pale…kind of delicate.  I can’t see his face, but there’s just something about him.  He’s so kind.”  Trowa blushed slightly, not wanting to admit to Catherine that he had not only imagined himself and this other person playing the instruments.  After the first time around, he had begun to picture himself and the pale boy as the lovers themselves.  “I was really happy when we played together.  I’ve never felt so at peace.”

“Oh, Trowa,” Catherine sighed.  “That sounds wonderful.”

“Yeah.  Yeah, it was.”  He wanted to cling to that feeling, to the warmth, to fill up the emptiness of his psyche with it.  But there was ice in the pit of his stomach, and it rose slowly, a sense of dread that finally reached all the way up to his heart.

“Trowa?  Trowa, what’s wrong?”  Without realizing it, he had brought his hands up to press against his head.

“I-I don’t know.  I feel so cold all of a sudden…”  The gentle warmth had turned into searing heat that concentrated on his left side, almost hot enough to burn him.  Yet it was nothing compared to the chilling, sickening fear that had wrapped around his heart or the sense in his mind that something was terribly wrong.  Tears started to pour down his face, and then a voice in his head screamed.

_‘Don’t get any closer to me!’_

Trowa gasped, his eyes flying open and his head jerking up.  “He’s in trouble!  I have to help him!  I have to _save_ him!  I—”

A flash of blinding pain hit him, and he cried out, hissing as he clutched at his head with both hands.  It hurt.  God, it _hurt_.  Why was this memory blocked from him?  The boy was in danger!  Why couldn’t he remember what the danger was?  Why, when it was so important?  He struggled to push through the pain, but he was completely overwhelmed.

It was several seconds before Trowa noticed that he was sobbing into a silent room.  He looked up, seeing Catherine putting the record back into its sleeve.

“That’s enough music,” she said.  “Come on, Trowa.  Let’s get you to bed.”

“But—”

“Enough already!”  Catherine glared at him for a moment, but then she carefully smoothed over her expression.  She gave him a somewhat unconvincing smile.  “It probably isn’t a memory at all.  You just needed someone to play the other part, so you made up someone that appealed to you.  Right?”

No, that wasn’t right.  The pale boy wasn’t a figment of his imagination.  He was real, he had to be.  It was the first thing that felt real to him since he had started living in this inescapable dream.  The boy _had_ to be real.

“I guess,” Trowa murmured reluctantly.  After all the excitement that had built up in his chest, all the hope that he might finally remember something, this was a terribly disappointing end to the evening.

Catherine took him to their shared living space, to the little cot that had become his own.  At her insistence, Trowa changed into his sleeping clothes and laid down.  He didn’t feel tired, but he didn’t want to argue with her.  He _couldn’t_ argue with her.  She was the only friend he had.  The only one he could remember, anyway.

“Goodnight, Trowa,” Catherine said.

“Goodnight, Catherine.”

As his sister dimmed the lights and left the room, Trowa’s brow crinkled.  Catherine’s name had shaken something loose in his head.  The pale boy’s name, wasn’t it something similar?  The first syllable was the same, he was sure of that.  What came after it?  He thought there might be a ‘t’ or an ‘r’ in there, but he couldn’t be certain.  _Cat…  Kat..._   Trowa frowned.  The spelling didn’t look right in his head, and the rest of the word wouldn’t come to him.  It was so close, yet just beyond his reach.  He sighed in frustration, turning onto his side and curling up a little.  The pale boy hovered at the edge of his consciousness, ghostlike, haunting him.

If he could only remember the boy—find him, somehow—maybe Trowa could help him.  But what could he do?  Trowa’s entire past was a blank.  Whenever he tried to delve into his memories, he was paralyzed, frozen by some inexplicable cold terror.  How could he possibly help the boy when he couldn’t even help himself?


	2. Hospes et amicus

**hospes et amicus**   _phrase, Latin._  “a visitor and a friend”

This chapter takes place during and after Episode 36.  The title refers to Duo and Heero, respectively.  We have a bit of Troquat, but this chapter mostly gives us a look at Trowa’s state of mind and his relationship dynamics with other characters.  It will be relevant to the Troquat plot later.

* * *

II.

Trowa had been thinking about the pale boy ever since that night.  He’d thought he was fine with leaving his past behind him, but the memory of the boy playing with him had sparked some strange need inside of Trowa.  Now that he had even partially recovered a memory, he was hungry for more.

His subconscious mind was eager to help.  In an attempt to satisfy his desire for more memories, it supplied him with several pleasant but unlikely dreams about the pale boy.  Each new dream left Trowa sighing wistfully when he woke.  Their content was rather tame—just kissing and a bit of rubbing against each other—but Trowa still doubted the dreams were anything more than hormone-fueled fantasies.  They just didn’t feel real to him.  He couldn’t imagine ever having been confident enough to kiss someone.  He certainly didn’t have the confidence for it now.  But who knew what he was like before the amnesia?

Nearly two full weeks went by before Trowa remembered anything else.  When he did, he almost wished that he hadn’t.

They had just wrapped up the night’s show.  Trowa had been sitting quietly, gazing down into a cup of coffee he’d received from a troupemate.  He was lost in thought, but that was nothing new.  He was always a little lost.  Catherine had come in through the tent flap and beamed at him.

“Great show, Trowa!” she had bubbled.  “The crowd sure did love you.”

“That’s good,” Trowa had said mildly.  A tiny smile appeared on his face.  Love.  It was funny to hear the word thrown around so casually, like a moment’s diversion by a clown could really be called love.  Maybe he had become overly sensitive to the word because he was longing to hear it used in the way it was meant to be.  He supposed Catherine must love him, but she had never said it to him.  Would anyone ever say it to him?

He knew it was a silly thing to want.  It was insecure of him, too.  Still, he wanted it.  He wanted to hear someone say they loved him.  Any kind of love was fine; he just wanted someone to say it.  But what if there was no one else?  Was there really no one in the entire world besides Catherine who could love him?  Trowa felt a little sick to his stomach at the thought.  The only other person he could recall was the pale boy, and his only memories of him were of music and screaming.  That told Trowa practically nothing about the kind of relationship they might have had.  He hoped they had been close, but what if they hadn’t been?  Maybe the boy was just a passing acquaintance Trowa had fixated on.

And even if they had been friends—even if they had been more than that—what if the boy’s scream in his memory had just been the least of the horror Trowa had witnessed?  What if he had lost his memories because he had seen something so awful that he couldn’t bear to remember any of it?  What if he had watched the boy die and he didn’t even know it?

What if the only other person in the world who might have cared about him was already dead?

Trowa had felt the familiar cold creeping up on him again, accompanied by a dreadful pain in his chest.  It felt like his heart was being ripped apart.  No, it couldn’t be.  He had only just remembered the boy.  He couldn’t bear to think that the only person he could remember wasn’t even alive anymore.

That was when the tent flap had opened up again.  Trowa looked up to find a boy around his own age peering in at him.  Sadly, it wasn’t the pale boy Trowa so longed to see; this one had tanned skin and long brown hair in a braid, and he was wearing black and white clothes that Trowa identified as a priest’s garb even if he couldn’t remember ever having seen a priest before.  Trowa didn’t recognize this boy at all.

But judging from the familiar greeting, the boy definitely recognized him.

“Hey, Trowa!  It _is_ you!  Trowa!”

The boy looked excited to see him, but Trowa just sat there, baffled.  He didn’t know what he was supposed to say.  He couldn’t get a word in anyway, as the boy talked too quickly for him to respond.  But then the boy placed his hands on Trowa’s shoulders, and Trowa broke out in cold sweat.  He wasn’t sure why it scared him so badly, but his entire body shut down the moment the strange boy laid hands on him.  He couldn’t even hear what the boy was saying anymore…Heero?  He seemed to be asking about someone named Heero.  Trowa couldn’t have responded even if he’d had an answer to give.  He couldn’t speak.  He couldn’t _breathe_.  Why couldn’t he breathe?

The boy didn’t stop asking about this Heero person until he felt Trowa’s shoulders shivering beneath his hands.  By then, Catherine had already realized that something was wrong.  She shoved the boy away and wrapped Trowa up in her arms, fixing the strange boy with a harsh glare.  The boy managed only a short protest before Catherine chased him away.  The last look of bewilderment the boy gave him stayed with Trowa, even if his words didn’t.

Trowa didn’t know how long he sat there, whimpering and cowering like an abused animal, before he actually registered Catherine holding on to him.  When he did, he threw his arms around her.  It took fifteen more minutes of her hugging him, stroking his hair and his back and murmuring soothing words, before he calmed down enough to change out of his costume.  Another hour passed before the shaking fully subsided.

That night, a small fragment of memory came to him in a dream.  There was a huge metal object in front of him, painted black and white, floating in what he could only guess was the darkness of space.  He dreamed of destroying it.  He didn’t want to—it filled him with remorse and self-disgust and made his eyes sting with tears—but he had a strong sense that it wasn’t his choice to make.  Then the dream diverted, and he was once again in the presence of the pale boy.  He couldn’t see him, but he knew he was there.  This time, there was no sweet music or pleasant touches.  This time, all he could hear was a soft, detached voice saying goodbye, and all he could feel was blazing heat before cold and darkness swallowed him whole.

0-0-0-0-0

When Trowa woke, he couldn’t recall the person he had met the previous day.  He had a vague and somewhat disturbing impression of someone who wouldn’t have looked out of place at a funeral.  It had taken Catherine’s careful question about “that priest boy” for Trowa to remember the boy’s black and white clerical garments.  The boy’s face still wouldn’t come to him, though, nor any of their brief conversation.  Trowa wondered if this was how all his memories had disappeared.  He had assumed that his past had been lost all at once, but maybe the memories had seeped slowly out of his head instead.  Maybe it had taken days or weeks for him to lose them all.

There was no way to know.  So he pushed it to the back of his mind and focused on his upcoming performance.

Trowa had been doing well with his current act with the lions, but the ringmaster had promised him a go at the high wire tonight.  Trowa performed a variety of acts, and the high wire was easily one of his favorites.  He’d rediscovered his ability to walk a tightrope shortly after returning to the circus, when he’d seen a couple of the other performers practicing on a rope low to the ground.  When they had invited him to try, he had stepped onto the rope and walked the whole length without the slightest difficulty.  Then he’d turned around, stared curiously at the rope, and cartwheeled back to the beginning again.  It had been a surprise, but it had thrilled him at the same time.  It had been one of the first things Trowa had done that actually made him feel like he was in control of his own body.

He spent the day deflecting thoughts of huge metal objects and soft, disembodied voices.  He forced himself to think of the high wire.  He liked the high wire.  He liked walking through the air all by himself.  No people, no animals.  Just him, completely independent.  A little scary, but he liked the feeling.  He liked being able to rely on himself.  Yes, Trowa thought determinedly over the insistent sounds and sights in his head, he very much liked the high wire.

Night finally came to the colony, and the circus’s show began.  Trowa waited his turn with Catherine at his side.  Then, at last, it was time.  Catherine gave him a kiss on the cheek for luck, and Trowa walked out, hidden in the dark while the preceding act neared its end.  Both the spotlights and the audience’s attentions were focused on a group of juggling clowns on unicycles, so he would be invisible until the light focused on him.  Taking a calming breath, Trowa ascended the tall ladder to the platform where the wire was securely fastened.

Below, the cycling clowns wrapped up their performance.  The ringmaster announced the next act.  And then the spotlight was on Trowa.  It was bright, glaring, making his eyes hurt as it was aimed almost directly into them.  He squinted, ignoring the headache he could feel coming on already, and gave a bow before beginning his act.

It was simple enough.  Trowa walked slowly, carefully out onto the wire, one foot in front of the other.  When he reached the halfway point, he stopped.  The crowd hadn’t come just to watch him walk, after all.  He bent his knees a bit and jumped up, switching which foot was in front and which was behind.  He repeated the move, then prepared to do the first of the actual tricks.

 _‘Be cautious…’_   Trowa blinked at the grim, strangely filtered voice that spoke in his head.  Another memory was trying to break through to him, he was sure of it.  But he couldn’t, not now.  He wanted his memories, but this was the worst possible time and place.  He needed to concentrate.  Trowa shook his head slightly, trying to push the memory away, but the voice in his head continued.    _‘Don’t forget…  He just destroyed a colony.’_

Trowa took a sharp breath, his body tensing up.  He just…  What?  Someone had destroyed a colony?  Who?  That was much more important than what he was doing right now.  Trowa reached back into his mind, trying to drag that voice to the forefront, urging it to tell him more—if a colony had been destroyed, he needed to know—

Without realizing it, Trowa shifted his foot back.  And then the voice in his head didn’t matter anymore.  His right foot slipped off the wire.  Trowa gasped and threw his arms out to his sides, arching his back, trying to regain his lost balance.  But then the left foot slipped too, and Trowa let out a cry of terror as he dropped.

It was fast reflexes and pure luck that kept him from falling to his death.  He spread out his hands as he fell and managed to catch hold of the wire in one of them.  He could hear people screaming below.  The ringmaster had gasped along with everyone else, but he was now telling everyone to remain calm.  ‘ _Calm.  Calm down…’_   Holding his own life in his hands, terrified, with that light shining in his eyes and that word echoing in his head, Trowa felt the world around him suddenly shift.  He had somehow gone from dangling in the air to a sitting position, and there was something in front of him…something white and blue and red, something gigantic, hovering before him in the dark.  A beam of pure light was shooting out of it.  His hands moved, clutching at whatever he held in them.  But why?  Why was he doing that?  Why did he need to use his hands to save himself?  Why couldn’t he just run away?

And why, if he was trying to save himself, was he moving _into_ the path of that light?

“ ** _Trowa!_** ”

He gave a grunt of confusion, startled at the sound of his own name.  It was screamed by a woman.  Catherine.  For some reason, that was not the voice he’d expected to hear.

And then he realized that the brilliance of that beam of light had dimmed to the somewhat softer glare of the spotlight, and his hands were no longer clutching at…whatever it was he’d been holding.  His hand, just one gloved hand, was clinging to the high wire.

Finally recognizing the present and very real danger, Trowa tightened his grip on the wire.  Got his other hand on it.  He quickly began to rock his body, building up momentum so he could swing himself back up.  When his feet were on the wire again, he resumed his walk, skipping the rest of his tricks in favor of getting to the other side as quickly and safely as he could.  Once he was on the platform, he stood panting and sweaty and wide-eyed.  He wasn’t sure what had rattled him more.  He’d had a near-death experience just now, but it seemed he’d had another one sometime in the past.  And that one, he realized with shock, had been entirely by choice.

When Trowa descended the ladder and made his way out of the ring, he had a brief glimpse of Catherine’s sheet-white face before she tackled him.  She trembled as she hugged him forcefully, almost suffocating him.

“No more high wire,” Catherine whispered.  “It’s too dangerous.”

“But I want to do it.  It’s my job,” Trowa protested, trying to free himself from her embrace.  He knew she wasn’t hurting him on purpose, but she was squeezing him far too tightly for comfort.  “If it wasn’t dangerous, no one would come to see it.”

“I don’t care!  I don’t want you up there!  Just…”  Catherine shivered almost as badly as Trowa had the previous night.  Then she tipped her head up toward him, smiling unsteadily, her eyes bright with tears.  “Let’s do the knives again, okay?  The knives are better.”

A small wrinkle appeared in Trowa’s forehead as his brows drew together.  He didn’t want to do the knives.  He didn’t want to be nothing more than a target.  He hated standing still and letting someone else do all the work.  But he knew Catherine only wanted him to be safe.  It was funny in an ironic way, that Catherine felt he was safer standing in front of her target board than walking the high wire alone.  But that was only because when he stood in front of the target board, his safety was in her hands.  Catherine had total faith in her own knife-throwing skills, but she didn’t trust him to be able to fend for himself.  And if tonight’s performance was any indication, she had every reason to doubt him.

Trowa sighed sadly and stroked his sister’s hair.  Her lack of faith in him was a terrible blow, crushing what little self-confidence he had managed to build up.  But at least he knew that she cared.  At least he knew that she loved him.

When the spotlight next fell on Trowa, he was spread-eagled against the target board.  Catherine stood across from him, giving a graceful bow to the audience, her knives held in her hands like gleaming metal fans.  She hurled each of the knives with absolute precision, and he didn’t have to do anything but stand in place for her.  As promised, she didn’t even nick him.  He was safe with her.  He would always be safe with her.

He just had to stand still and do nothing.

Somehow, he didn’t think his past self would have been satisfied with that.

* * *

 **Final thoughts** : Trowa’s memory is about the last time he was with Heero for two reasons.  One, Duo asks about Heero specifically, and even if Trowa blanks out the entire meeting with Duo afterward, his subconscious mind still remembers Duo’s question and tries to answer it.  Two, he was thinking about people who might care about him, and I like to think Heero qualifies there.


	3. Mors voluntaria

**mors voluntaria** _noun, Latin._   “voluntary death; suicide”

Apologies for the late chapter.  I’ve been busy with moving and haven’t been able to do much of anything on the computer over the past week.  :/  This is a short chapter taking place around Episode 37, maybe a day or two before Trowa meets Quatre (which will be in the next installment).  Chapter title is self-explanatory.  It’s light on Troquat again, but we’ll make up for that in the coming weeks.  Also, not sure if a **trigger warning** is really necessary considering the series itself is a trigger, but this chapter contains references to past suicidal tendencies.  Shockingly, the G-Team aren't the poster boys for mental health.

* * *

III.

The following afternoon found Trowa seated atop a wooden crate, canvas draped across his lap and a sturdy needle in his hand.  It was slow work, but it was coming along nicely.  He was just shifting the heavy cloth when he heard footsteps approaching.  He glanced up to find the ringmaster frowning at him, arms folded over his chest.

Trowa stared up at him, biting his lip in apprehension.  When the ringmaster didn’t say anything, he deemed it safe to resume his sewing.  It was a few more seconds before the ringmaster spoke.

“So, what happened?”

Trowa brushed a hand over his work to smooth it out.  It was a section of the tent, torn by a careless swipe from a child with a toy sword, and Trowa had taken it upon himself to set it right.  The first thing he had done was speak with the young perpetrator.  The child had been in tears, horrified by the mistake, and Trowa hadn’t seen any point in scolding someone who already understood that they’d done wrong.  So Trowa had offered a comforting look and told the child it would be easy to fix.  Then he had made silly faces and juggled a bit in an attempt to lighten the mood.  Making people smile was his job, after all, and no one should ever leave a circus feeling worse than when they’d arrived.

Once the child had thanked him for his kindness and gone on his way, Trowa had assessed the actual damage.  A sizable rip in canvas that had already seen better days, it would take some time to repair.  Still, it wasn’t like he had much else to do.

“It was nothing,” Trowa answered, carefully tightening his last stitch.  “A kid got too excited, that’s all.  I’ll have it sorted in no time.”

Looking back up and seeing the ringmaster’s serious expression, Trowa tried another placating smile.  Unlike the child, the ringmaster didn’t seem moved.

“I didn’t mean here,” the ringmaster said.  “I meant up there, the other day.  On the high wire,” he elaborated when Trowa looked confused.  “You didn’t just slip.  You stopped.  So, what happened up there?”

Trowa lowered his eyes to the mending that rested in his lap.  Oh.  He had hoped the incident would go unpunished, but the ringmaster must have simply been waiting for the right time to chastise him.  At least, he hoped that was all he would do.  The possibility of more severe consequences made Trowa’s stomach turn.

“I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to.  I was trying to concentrate on the performance, really.  I just…couldn’t,” Trowa said.  “I think some things might be coming back to me, and this one forced its way in and distracted me.  I know it came at the worst possible time.”  He clenched his fists around the needle and thread.  “I’m sorry I ruined the show.  I’ll do better next time.  Please don’t fire me.”  _I don’t have anywhere else to go…_

The ringmaster’s frown never left his face.  Trowa’s submissive apology seemed to perturb him.  But eventually, the older man sniffed.

“Well, if there’s nothing you can do about it, there’s nothing you can do,” he said.  “Don’t let it happen again.”

“I won’t, sir.”  Trowa was grateful for the leniency, but he still felt gloom settling over him as he gazed down at the canvas.  “Catherine won’t let me back on the high wire, anyway.  She says it’s too dangerous.”

“Probably for the best.”

“Yeah, probably.”

The ringmaster turned to leave, but he paused.  He looked back to Trowa with a slightly curious expression.

“What did you remember?” he asked.  Trowa blinked.  He hadn’t thought about the admittedly frightening memory since.  In fact, he had made a point of not thinking about it.

“I’m not sure.  It was…”  Trowa tried to call the memory back up, but it had already faded.  He hissed softly, annoyed with himself.  It had been a memory, a real memory, and he had allowed it to slip away because he’d been too afraid to keep it.  Thinking of the thing that had nearly gotten him killed—once in the past, and then again while he was on the high wire—Trowa could recall only a few key aspects.  “It was something big.  A machine, I think.”

“A mobile suit?”

Those words made Trowa’s eyes snap wide with recognition.  Visions flashed in his head of machines painted all different colors, drab forest-greens and deep ocean-blues and purplish blacks to match the night sky.  Then, in stark contrast to those dull colors, there was a suit done up in flashy red and white and orange.  There was no attempt to make that suit blend in with its surroundings.  It was _meant_ to be seen.  And so was the other one, the white and blue and red one whose image swam hazily back into his mind.

“Yeah,” Trowa said slowly.  “Yeah, that sounds right.  It was a mobile suit.”

“And it surprised you?  Scared you?”

“No…  Not the suit itself…”  Trowa laid his hand over his forehead.  The suit wasn’t what had scared him.  No.  It was the fact that he had moved in front of that suit and what his mind now informed him had been a beam weapon.  He could have run away, but he had intentionally moved into its path.  “I think I was trying to get in front of it.  I don’t know why, but…”  Trowa closed his eyes, dragging his lip between his teeth.  Even though his past self had been afraid, even though he had known he was probably about to die, he had been ready for it. He had been desperate for it. Not for his death, but to put himself into the path of destruction.  “I don’t think it was an accident that did this to me.  I think I did this to _myself_.  I put myself in harm’s way.  But why would I do that?  It doesn’t make any sense.”

The ringmaster watched him for a short while before clearing his throat.

“Well.  Maybe you were trying to protect something.  When we’re trying to protect things that are important to us, we sometimes do things that don’t make a whole lot of sense.  Things that put our own lives at risk.”  He gave Trowa a look of understanding.  “Believe it or not, I have seen you do things like that before.  You’ve laid your life on the line for things you wanted to protect.  Not everyone can do that, you know.  You should be proud of it.”

Trowa blinked as the ringmaster gave him a nod and left.  He worried at his lip.  Something he wanted to protect at the cost of his own life?  Could there have been such a thing?  It did seem to make sense of his feelings.  He was sure that he hadn’t wanted to die, but he had wanted to get in front of that attack.  If he had done it not to hasten his own demise, but to prevent something even more catastrophic from happening, he could understand that.  It made perfect sense.  Yes, he concluded, there must have been something he’d been trying to protect.  But this new knowledge didn’t make him feel better.  If anything, it made him feel like an entirely new chasm had opened up inside him.  What could have been so important?  If it had meant so much to him that he’d been willing to die in its defense, why couldn’t he remember it now?  The thought that he could have forgotten something so dear to him gnawed away at his soul as surely as he was gnawing at his own lip.

And he was certainly doing that.  Trowa didn’t realize how much or how deeply he had been biting his lip until it started to sting.  Distantly surprised by the pain, Trowa touched his fingertips to the sore spot.  They came back smeared with blood.  Oh.  He had hurt himself.  How foolish of him…

When he returned to their shared living space, Catherine barely had to glance at him before she leapt to her feet.

“Trowa!  What in the world happened?!” she gasped.  Trowa stared at his sister vacantly as she scrambled to get some ointment from the first aid kit.  He let her push him down into a sitting position, and he stayed still and quiet as she dabbed his lip with something that made his skin feel too hot.  “You didn’t get into a fight, did you?” Catherine asked, her tone almost accusing.  An odd accusation to make.  And yet…

“I think I might have,” Trowa murmured.  He just didn’t remember who he had been fighting.  Or why.

0-0-0-0-0

Trowa’s dream that night seemed peaceful at first.  He dreamed of a dark-haired boy sitting up in a bed.  His face was obscured, as all the faces from Trowa’s past were, but he could tell the boy was both good-looking and naked from the waist up.  He also had bandages wrapped over most of his torso.  The boy was a bit melancholy, but he said something that made Trowa laugh.  There was a connection there, a sense of camaraderie.  Perhaps they could be friends.

But the boy had a strange aura about him.  Trowa could almost see the shadow of death clinging to him, like he had come close to it before.  Like he had done it on purpose, even.  Maybe that was the best way out, Trowa had thought.  Maybe it was a good idea.

Trowa woke with a start.  Bile was already surging up from the pit of his stomach.

 _Maybe it was a good idea._ _  
_

With those words replaying over and over again in his head, Trowa rolled to the edge of his cot and vomited.  He lay on his side, shuddering and gasping, and wiped his still-tender lips with the back of his hand.  Could he really have thought that?  He had been afraid of dying when he had moved in front of that mobile suit.  He was _terrified_ of dying now.  Had there really been a time when he’d thought it was a good idea?

He spent the better part of an hour trying to regain control of himself.  He self-hugged, rubbing his own arms.  He breathed as slowly and deeply as his body would allow.  And he tried to force the dark memories out by replacing them with lighter ones.  Catherine, hugging him and stroking his hair.  The pale boy, playing music with him.  Holding tightly on to those comforting thoughts, he eventually began to calm down.

Trowa didn’t fall asleep again so much as pass out from exhaustion.  When he woke, he didn’t even remember having dreamed.  That was probably for the best.


	4. Quis es tu

**Quis es tu** _phrase, Latin._   “Who are you?”

This chapter takes place during Episode 38 and covers Trowa and Quatre’s initial reunion (we’re on Chapter 4, so I couldn’t resist introducing Quatre now).  It’s a bit rough, but I hope it’s still enjoyable.  We will at least be getting to the main Troquat plot now.  Sorry things are moving so slowly.

* * *

IV.

For a few hours the following morning, Trowa wished that all his memories would just stay gone.  It was petty frustration that made him feel that way, but for a few hours, it was how he felt.

He hadn’t even been awake for twenty minutes before he’d had another flashback-induced headache.  Luckily, he hadn’t been in the middle of anything especially dangerous at the time.  He had dumped an entire pot of coffee on the floor, though.  Catherine, still half-asleep and inhibitions accordingly lowered, had sighed in exasperation before she could stop herself.  Then she had snapped fully awake and looked at him guiltily.  It was too late, though.  She had already made her true feelings known.  She put on a kind face for him out of pity, but deep down, she was getting tired of having to take care of him.

Chastened by that sigh more effectively than if she had scolded him, Trowa had meekly gone for the kitchen towels.  Catherine had waved him off with a bright smile, and he had just stood there uselessly while she cleaned up his mess.  He didn’t even know what had triggered the flashback.  If he knew what things would trigger them, he would avoid those things.  He’d only been helping Catherine prepare breakfast.  Couldn’t he even do that much?

Hoping to prove that he wasn’t completely incompetent, Trowa had ventured out to the animal enclosures immediately after breakfast.  One of the handlers had been cleaning out the cages, and even though it wasn’t Trowa’s job, he had volunteered to take over.  The handler had agreed readily, as any sane person would, and Trowa had spent the rest of the morning shoveling excrement.  That, at least, he managed to do without any problems.

By noon, he had finished with the task and mostly gotten over the morning’s rough start.  Mostly.  He wiped the sweat from his brow and decided to visit with his favorite lion again.  He had looked a little bored when Trowa had been cleaning out his cage, and Trowa wanted to see if he could liven things up for him.

It only took five minutes for him to realize that something more than boredom was bothering the lion.  He was lying indolently on his side, and nothing Trowa did seemed to catch his interest.  What was wrong with him?  Was he sick?  Trowa had been taking such good care of him, though.  He seemed to be physically fine.  There were no symptoms besides lethargy.  What could be wrong?

“Why are you making that face, hm?” Trowa asked in what he hoped was a light, friendly tone of voice.  He smiled in an attempt to cheer the animal, but he received only a weary look for his trouble.  His smile faded.  Perhaps the lion was just unhappy.  He supposed he had every reason to be.  He was a large animal, too large for his little cage.  Aside from the shows at night, there wasn’t much to stimulate his mind, either.  Trowa was probably the most interesting thing he saw during the day, and that was just pitiful.  Trowa was as boring as they came.

“I’ll bet you wish you had more space to move around,” Trowa said.  He rubbed the lion’s ear and lowered his voice, as if he were about to divulge a secret.  “…Or maybe just another lion to keep you company.”

The lion gave a mournful moan.  Trowa liked to think that the lion knew what he had said.  Maybe that was just wishful thinking on his part, though.  He wriggled his fingers through the lion’s mane, scratching.

“Yeah.  I know the feeling,” Trowa said quietly.  “It gets kind of lonely sometimes, doesn’t it?  Even with so many people around, none of them are really like you.  They’re good people, but they aren’t lions.  They’ll never understand what’s going on inside your head.”  Trowa noted with regret that he was one of those people.  In spite of all his efforts to understand, he, too, was a human.  “I wish there was some way I could help you.  I can’t do much besides keep you company and clean up after you, though.  And bring you food.”

He received a blank stare.  Then, a slight whine.  Trowa understood that well enough.  The lion couldn’t have his freedom or friends, but food was better than nothing.

“Okay,” Trowa said gently, “okay…  I’ll go get your food.”

Trowa was just about to stand up when something caught his attention.  A faint scent.  He had become familiar with the scent of everyone around the circus; they all used the same sharp, bargain-basement brands of soap, himself included.  But this scent was pleasantly subtle, sweet and creamy.  A _fragrance_.  He had the strange feeling that he had smelled it before, too.  Curious, Trowa turned his head to face the wind and blinked.

Well, that explained how he had smelled this new person.  Not only was he standing upwind, he was less than two meters away.

Standing there behind Trowa was a boy, somewhat delicate in build, with warm platinum blond hair.  He appeared to be about Trowa’s age, as his face had already started to lose its childish roundness.  He probably only had another year or two before he could be called a man, then.  But he wasn’t there yet.  He was still a boy.  A wealthy boy, too, if his clean and well-tailored clothes were any indication.  Trowa knew from experience that teenage boys were constantly dirtying and outgrowing their clothing—his own trousers were spattered with animal droppings and were rapidly becoming too short for his ever-lengthening legs—but the boy obviously had enough money to keep himself presentable.  Trowa had to keep himself from shifting awkwardly, wondering if the boy would look down on him for his apparent lack of hygiene.

But then the boy said something that made him forget all about his insecurities.

“Trowa?”

His name.  At least, he guessed it was his name.  The boy didn’t say it like a name.  He said it reverently, almost breathless with awe, like it was one of the great marvels of the world.  Trowa had never heard it spoken that way before.  He didn’t know who the boy was, but his skin was prickling with…nervousness?  Anticipation?  The fact that the boy was cute and smelled nice might have had something to do with it, but Trowa couldn’t help feeling like it was more than that.

The boy’s breathing was unsteady.  There were tears in his eyes.  He spoke again.

“Trowa…  It’s really you.”

Trowa’s heart had started to pound, a sympathetic response to the emotions he could almost physically feel pouring out of the boy, but he wouldn’t let it show.  He wouldn’t get his hopes up.  He wouldn’t.  Rising to his feet, Trowa turned around to get a better view of his visitor.  Now that he was standing, he saw that the boy was a good ten centimeters shorter than him.

“Who are you?” he asked.

The expression on the boy’s face turned to confusion.  Then, dismay.  That told Trowa right away that he shouldn’t have had to ask.  He should have known.  The boy gasped out Trowa’s name, reaching out to him with one hand, and that was enough.  Trowa knew this was someone from his past.  Trowa asked, urgently, if the boy knew him, only to watch dismay change into heartbreak.

“Don’t you recognize me?” the boy whispered.

The boy advanced toward him.  For a second Trowa was frozen, filled with an irrational fear that the boy was about to grab his shoulders and shake him in an attempt to bring him to his senses.  He vaguely recalled someone having done that to him once.  But his posture was different—no.  There was no danger here.  This boy didn’t intend to shake him.  He intended to _hug_ him.

No one besides Catherine had ever hugged him before.  Trowa wondered if he would like it.

The sound of a pail hitting the ground startled both Trowa and his visitor.  The boy stopped in his tracks, and they both turned to look.  Catherine was standing there, the pail lying forgotten on the ground at her feet.  There was an almost violent look in her eyes as she stared at the blond boy.

“Trowa, get back to the tent,” she said, voice harder than Trowa had ever heard it.

“But Sis—”

“Sis?” the blond boy repeated incredulously.

“ _Get going!_ ” Catherine shouted.  Seeing Trowa’s flinch, she was quick to rein in her temper.  She let out a slow breath before pasting on a smile.  When she spoke again, it was with forced cheer and a smattering of nerves.  “I’ll look after feeding the animals.  You go and help the manager.  Okay?”

Trowa stared at her for a moment, still unsure.  He wanted to stay and find out more about the mysterious boy, but how could he disobey?  He nodded slowly and moved away.

“Wait!” the blond boy pleaded, but Trowa didn’t dare turn around for fear of being yelled at again.  As he entered the tent, he heard fast footsteps behind him—the boy obviously meant to follow—but Catherine got in between them.  While her back was turned and the boy was occupied with staring at this new obstacle, Trowa ducked hurriedly to the side and concealed himself between the crates.  Maybe if he waited for Catherine to leave, he could catch the boy and talk to him.

It was not the best hiding spot.  He could see them, but they weren’t speaking loudly enough for him to catch what they were saying.  Trowa sighed regretfully.  He wished that he had picked a hiding spot within hearing range, but he couldn’t risk leaving his current position to try to get any closer.  This would have to do.

At first it looked like Catherine and the boy would argue.  Catherine was certainly tense enough for it, and Trowa knew how strong-willed she could be when it came to something she felt passionately about.  The boy, who had looked so gentle just moments earlier, now looked like he could match her for determination.  Strange.  Both appeared to be kind-natured, but something had riled them up.  Trowa had the feeling that the two of them put on opposite sides of an argument could very well rip each other apart.

But something Catherine said made the boy’s courage falter.  He went white with shock, like all the blood had drained from his body.  His posture slumped, and his face tilted toward the ground.  Trowa wondered what Catherine had said to make him look so wounded.  The boy was speaking now, and Trowa thought he saw something catch the light.  Tears.  Was the boy crying?  Why?  What was going on here?  What had Catherine said to hurt the boy so badly?  This didn’t make any sense.  It wasn’t like her to hurt people.

The boy was definitely crying now, his body visibly trembling.  A softer heart might have had pity on him.

Catherine, shockingly, had none.

“If that’s the way you feel, just leave him!” she yelled.  “Trowa’s a lot happier now being here at the circus with us!”

Catherine turned on her heel and left the boy to his tears.  Trowa shrank back behind the crates, and she stormed right past his hiding spot.  Once she was gone, Trowa crept out again to stare at the boy.  Surely he hadn’t deserved such harsh treatment.  He seemed nice enough, and he obviously knew Trowa somehow.  But for some reason, Catherine didn’t like him.  What was the reason?  Trowa narrowed his eyes.  Catherine wouldn’t act so aggressively unless there was a threat to someone’s safety.  Was the boy a threat, then?  Was it possible that the boy wasn’t as innocent as he looked?  Appearances could be deceiving, after all.

But the boy had looked so happy to see him.  He had wanted to hug him…

Trowa watched as the boy wiped his face with one hand and turned to leave.  He was walking slowly.  Trowa could have caught him.  He just didn’t know if he should.

The decision was taken away from him as a sudden pain hit him.  Trowa’s eyes flickered dazedly, as if he’d been dealt a blow to the head, and he clutched at the afflicted part of him as he sank to his knees.  Another headache, twice in one day.  But he knew what had triggered it this time.  The boy.  But why?  Who _was_ he?  Who could he be?  They knew each other, but how?  Trowa was so tired of this.  He wanted these episodes to stop.  Either to stop remembering, or to remember it all.  But in his heart, he knew that not remembering wasn’t an option he could live with anymore.

He wanted to know.  He had to know.  He was _going_ to know.

His mind did not like that decision.  Pain tore through his head, trying to push him back into submission, to go back to the complacent dreamy state he’d been in for these past weeks.  But he couldn’t go back now.  That boy knew him, which meant he in turn must know that boy.  Trowa tried to convince himself of it, tried to force his mind to accept it as the truth.  Because it was the truth.  He did know him.  He just needed his mind to accept it so he could remember how he knew him.  Nothing but pain was inside his mind right now, and he was intentionally making it worse, like driving a knife into his own skull.  He was starting to wonder if there was any point to it, if there was anything worth this much pain.  If there was anything worth remembering.

Trowa was biting his lower lip, aggravating his injury from the previous day.  He forced himself to stop, to open his mouth just a little so his teeth couldn’t bite down.  His breath passed between his sore lips, making them tingle.  Sensitive, aching.  He wanted relief.  He wanted something to touch him there.

But something _had_ touched him there.  Something cool.  Metal, pressed gently against his mouth, like a kiss.

_Oh…  Oh, of course._

He could finally place him.  That little bit of pain in just the right place had done the trick.  It was so obvious now that Trowa almost laughed at how dumb he’d been to miss it.  Pale, kind of delicate, and so very, very kind…  Trowa knew exactly who the boy was.  He was the boy who had played music with him.  The boy whose memory had gotten him through so many lonely nights.  Trowa took a soft breath as warmth poured over him, like the sun had finally started to shine.  His head was throbbing and his lip had begun to bleed again, but that didn’t bother him anymore.  _I know him._   _I **know** him!_

Suddenly, Trowa was elated.  He basked in this feeling of sweet nostalgia, in the wonderful reassurance that he hadn’t been imagining it all, that the pale boy from his dreams really did exist.  That he had _remembered_ someone.  His short, blurry, sepia-tinted memory of the boy playing violin burst through his mind, and his jaw dropped at how clear the memory had become.  The previously missing face had given it astonishing depth and brought it back into full color.  Such a kind face, with such a peaceful expression.  The boy had paused in his playing and opened his eyes to look up at Trowa.  That face became even kinder when he smiled.  Warm.  Inviting.  Not a passing acquaintance, then.  A friend.

Trowa blinked slowly and lifted his head to look at the boy, at his newly rediscovered friend.  Now that he had identified the boy as such, hugging him seemed like a damn good idea.  And maybe dragging him off to his living space for coffee and a very long talk, because he had questions and the boy would undoubtedly have answers.  Finally, someone he could ask!  Trowa shivered with excitement.  Finally…

But the hopeful feeling in Trowa’s heart evaporated.  He couldn’t see the boy anymore.

“Wait…”  Trowa lurched to his feet, eyes wide as he ran out of the tent.  He looked around in a wild panic.  “W-wait, please!  Where have you gone?  Please come back!”

There was no response.  Trowa tore through the grounds, asking each person he passed if they had seen a boy, a little shorter than him, light blond hair—?  Each shaken head chipped away another small piece of Trowa’s heart.  How was it possible that no one had seen him?  The hope he had felt at meeting the boy was fast darkening, spiraling into the deepest doubts Trowa had ever felt.  Was it possible that he had imagined the whole thing?  Had he been hallucinating?  Had he lost it completely?

No.  No, the boy had been here.  Catherine had talked to him.  Unless he’d imagined that, too.  He couldn’t be that far gone, could he?

Trowa staggered about like a wounded animal, desperately searching for the boy, but the longer he looked, the less certain he was that his quarry was even real.  His strength left along with his hope.  His body felt heavy, and his legs felt weaker and weaker.  Finally, they gave out beneath him, and he fell to his knees once more.

Oh, no.  Oh, _no_.  What had he done?  Why had he walked away from the boy when he should have stayed?  Why hadn’t he gone out to meet the boy immediately after Catherine had left?  Why had he hesitated?  Tears began to rain down on the ground beneath Trowa as the enormity of his mistake pressed down him.  The universe had been merciful enough to send the boy to him, and he hadn’t recognized his chance until it was too late.

“No…  Please, don’t leave me here…  Don’t leave me like this…”  Trowa gripped his hand in the grass beneath him.  With no happiness or excitement to block it out, he couldn’t ignore the pain in his head any longer.  Dark spots were invading his vision from the corners of his eyes.  “Please, come back…  You didn’t…  You didn’t even tell me your name.”

* * *

 **Final note.**   I hope this wasn’t too bad.  Next chapter may be delayed, as I’m not sure what my work schedule will look like yet.  Stick with me, okay?


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